


Green as Holly

by distantstarlight



Series: 12 Lays of Christmas [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Developing Relationship, Fluff, I wrote a lot of this at work so..., M/M, POV Alternating, Post series 4, Sherlock is jealous, hidden thoughts, inner thoughts, missing clues, outer thoughts, slowish burn, the boys are ridiculously clueless sometimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-23 18:27:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13196001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distantstarlight/pseuds/distantstarlight
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is jealous of someone in John's past and is in a bit of a snit because of what he thinks is true. John is absolutely clueless but don't worry, it's Christmas for everyone.





	Green as Holly

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this at work due to time restraints and just could not do the smut part for hopefully obvious reasons HOWEVER, in the series descriptor I did warn everyone that some of the stories might be kinda smut-free. I hope you enjoy it anyway.

Sherlock

 

It made Sherlock want to foam at the mouth when he thought of _her_. John was _pining_ again, he could tell. He wore the same clothes as he had _then_. He was re-reading a book _she_ _’d_ gotten him. _John was nostalgically going through photos on his mobile_. Jealous. He was jealous and he loathed himself for being so weak.

“Dinner?” Sherlock realized that he was mirroring Irene’s hopeless advances and felt despondent but helpless to stop himself. His chest felt tight and his cheeks felt hot but not with excitement or interest. Sherlock felt possessive and angry, and he didn’t know how to manage it all.

John looked up and seemed startled but then a large warm smile spread across his face, “Starving. Where?”

Sherlock knew he was taking advantage of John’s mood to reminisce, but it didn’t stop him from saying, “Angelo’s?”

“Perfect.” John’s expression was one of poignant happiness as if he were pleased and displeased at the same time, “No, that’s perfect.”

The strain around Sherlock’s heart eased but Sherlock was a bit confused. He was a master of reading body language, but the one that John’s body spoke was a code he had not yet broken. John’s expressions were bold, varied, clear, and an absolute mystery. _Why did he look happy and miserable at the same time? Perhaps John was hungry but hadn_ _’t really wanted to go to Angelo_ _’s? Was he just humouring Sherlock_ _’s suggestion?_ “Unless you’re in the mood for something different?”

John looked startled. “What? No, no I’m not. In fact, remember the night we met? That was the best meal I’ve ever had, and even after all this time, I still enjoy the selections there. Come on, Sherlock, I wasn’t joking when I said I was _starving_ , and I know Angelo will make me some garlic toast to tide me over until everything’s ready.”

John hustled Sherlock out of the flat. Such was the doctor’s urgency that he placed his hand on the small of Sherlock’s back to guide him out the door. It was faster to walk there than it was to try and find a cab at this time of the evening, so the two of them briskly strode down the street with John nearly pushing Sherlock along. The warmth of his hand burned with a kind of heat Sherlock didn’t exactly recognise but he didn’t dislike it. John asked Sherlock about the experiment on the table, and one question at a time filled all the minutes they needed to get to their destination. Sherlock was almost sorry to arrive, so genial had their effortless conversation been, but John just helped Sherlock out of his greatcoat and escorted him to their usual table where a server was already waiting attentively while a proud Angelo watched from the kitchen door. John asked for his emergency order of toast and accepted two menus, “I already know what I want.” Sherlock meant John, but tortellini would do in his stead as a meal.

John grinned down, “Me too, I just enjoy taking all the proper steps.” _Yes, John was a man of precise habit._ John perused the selections briefly before setting the menu down. When their server arrived with their wine and John’s cheesy garlic toast, he gave their order before handing Sherlock half-a-piece, “Come on, join me.”

Sherlock didn’t normally have much of an appetite but in the past few months, John had used a campaign of compliments and encouragement to guide Sherlock into better eating habits. He had to admit that it was very gratifying to keep all the muscle mass he’d been forced to gain during the years he’d been abroad and that being stronger as well as fitter meant that his transport required larger portions of fuel to operate. John didn’t try to convince Sherlock to eat things he seriously didn’t like but had managed to suss out all the foods that his detective friend did enjoy. Angelo’s was a constant favourite of them both, and tonight, the hot rich scents from the kitchen made both men’s appetites stir.

Angelo appeared, producing a well-lit candle which he flamboyantly placed in the centre of the table. “Christmas Special tonight, gentlemen, I bring you a special platter, no arguing.” Angelo bustled happily away, taking away John’s already empty plate and bringing a large basket of cheesy garlic toast for them to share while their meal was being prepared.

He was eating his second slice before he knew it, and was engaged in an effortless conversation with John. It wasn’t until John stole half of Sherlock’s remaining portion that he realised that the two of them very often flirted with one another yet never did anything about it. He wondered if they ever would, but it didn’t seem likely. John was as straight as he ever had been, there was no point even speculating about what might be, no matter how much denial tore him apart inside. This, whatever this was, was better than not having John at all. Sherlock was determined to be content with his lot.

 

John

 

John was loving every minute of the evening. Sherlock was one hundred percent focused on him, and it was fantastic to be the centre of such attention. _How had he ever convinced himself that the alternative choice that he had made had been the better one? How had his attempted domesticity ever once measured up to the camaraderie and understanding between himself and his best friend?_ Sherlock understood John in a way no one, not even the disturbingly perceptive Mary Morstan, had been able to do, though she had played John well. There was never a need to explain his own character to Sherlock, even if his actions often took the consulting detective by surprise, Sherlock knew exactly who John was as a human being. John was a man of many degrees, and Sherlock shockingly found all of them amiable and even interesting. John was properly humbled that a genius like Sherlock considered him a friend. He had tried for so long to respect Sherlock’s cerebral self by restraining his urge to become closer, and tonight, John knew he was losing that fight.

It was Christmas Eve and he was grateful to be where he was. He’d spent days thinking about the long strange path that had taken him so many places and had ended up right here, at 221 B Baker Street yet again. A year ago, John had been married to a lie and Sherlock had still been married to his work, but now John was a widower and wondering if Sherlock might be tempted into a becoming a bit of a philanderer. John was going to ask. It was making him crazy not knowing if the man he loved might possibly love him back, or if John would have to accustom himself to being silently in love with Sherlock forever. Honestly, even if they just remained best friends for the rest of their lives, it would be enough, but John was enough of a romantic to hopelessly hope for more.

Their meal comprised of an extremely large oval plate filled with all manner of luxurious comestibles, all bite-sized, and as varied in flavour as they were in shape. Their dinner ended with smiles and a frothy creamy dessert filled with fresh fruit. They shared a larger-than-normal portion of it, both men feeling more than a bit full now that their meal was done. It was snowing lightly but John still said, “Want to go for a walk?” Long rambling walks with Sherlock were always some of John’s favourite times. Yes, they worked cases together but those were busy times when you had to focus on other things, have other priorities. When John walked with Sherlock, there was just the two of them. Their idle conversation wandered as far and wide as their rambles took them, and through those conversations, John was given small tidbits of Sherlock’s past. No one really knew what Sherlock had done in his life, not even Mycroft. He was a strange fascinating multi-faceted man who had broad interests in things both common and bizarre, and John was rightly proud of the fact that even if he only knew a bit, that he knew more about Sherlock Holmes than anyone in the world.

Sherlock’s eyes were still bright from the laughter they’d shared over their food, and he nodded without hesitation, “That would be perfect. I probably shouldn’t have had afters. I’m going to need to upgrade my wardrobe again, and I’ve already done that once this year.” Sherlock looked a bit uncomfortable and John recollected the many times Sherlock had mocked his brother for putting on a bit of weight. Neither man was anywhere near fat, but both of them seemed incredibly conscious of their exterior appearance.

“I don’t mind, I rather like feeding you up. It looks good on you.” Neither man made further reference to the term _feeding up_ because they weren’t dating, so it wasn’t like they were boyfriends or anything, even if it felt like they were in so many different ways. John was proud of Sherlock’s physique. He’d made a concerted effort for months now to help Sherlock recover from the tremendous amount of physical trauma he’d undergone in the last few years, and it had taken a lot of careful planning to find a way for Sherlock to reach a level of health he’d never enjoyed in his adult life. He was covered in hard flat muscle, his body was lithe and powerful, and yes, he had the tiniest of swells over his belly but it could easily be dismissed as just skin but John knew it was podge and he was proud of that too. For the first time in his life, Sherlock had reserves on his body instead of being precariously balanced between barely-functional and almost dead from self-imposed starvation.

“Well, we’ll need to take more walks then, I’m getting slow on the chase.” Sherlock rubbed the small mound self-consciously and without thinking, John rubbed it too, his motions transmitting his opinion that Sherlock was not out-of-shape, and that John approved of his current state of fitness, and that everything was okay. He wanted to put his hand back or to keep hold of Sherlock somehow. John had missed his friend so deeply and he was fairly certain that he would never get over the need to verify that he was really there, and would remain. John worried that he’d gone too far with his touch but after his unintentional caress, Sherlock seemed to relax and made no comment about John’s intimate gesture. He simply strode down the street like it was any other moment in their friendship, and John was happy.

 

Sherlock

 

 _John had touched him_. Sherlock struggled to control his breathing and to remain focused on his friend instead of disappearing into his mind palace to catalogue every moment of this evening. How lovely it had felt to have John’s hand on him. It hadn’t been sexual, instead, Sherlock had felt comforted and even supported by the casualness of the gesture. _John liked the way he looked_. It made Sherlock feel good. _Maybe John wasn_ _’t as repelled as he could be by the male body? Maybe they_ _’d never be lovers but perhaps a certain degree of beyond friendly physicality might be possible?_ Sherlock became instantly enamoured of the idea of John allowing him liberties like hugs, or maybe even cuddles on the couch if that wasn’t dreaming of too much. Perhaps John wouldn’t mind sitting with an arm about Sherlock’s shoulder on cold nights, or maybe, just maybe, John would allow Sherlock to rub his sore shoulders when John’s war wound ached from fatigue or the weather? What about more, what about…nakedness and friction and contact?

The rest of the walk went right over his head as his brain whited out momentarily with lust. It took all of his self-discipline to not just disappear into his mind palace to work out the logistics. He managed to pay attention to John’s words but Sherlock didn’t take in the snowy landscape, the other happy Londoners who were bundled up and walking about in cheerful groups, or any of the other winter scenes that played out around him. All he could see was John; lovely, laughing, happy, smiling, _touching_ , John. The extra physical contact was continuing, becoming expected, anticipated, enjoyed, and it was making Sherlock’s head spin a bit.

John nudged Sherlock’s elbow more than once to direct his attention here or there. He gripped Sherlock’s forearm to ask him about takeaway coffee from the open-late kiosk. More than once, John reached up and patted Sherlock’s shoulder. Daringly, Sherlock reached out and brushed a scattering of snowflakes from John’s bared head, running his fingers through the slightly-longer-than-usual hairs with boldness, and yearned to lean down to claim that mouth as his own. “Thanks,” John said with a grin.

They kept walking. Sherlock was deliriously happy and wanted their walk to last forever but John wound them around until they were back at Baker Street stamping the snow off their shoes before going in. It was over, and now he was sad. John would go back to pining for Mary and Sherlock would die lonely and unfulfilled.

Instead of returning to his mournful occupation, John took out a puzzle for them to work on. “It’s a bit childish, isn’t it John?” Sherlock looked curiously at the large box now dominating their temporarily empty kitchen table.

John looked downcast for a moment, “Well, honestly, I haven’t done one since I was a child so…yes…”

Sherlock felt an uncomfortable sensation in his mid-region. He had unintentionally made John feel awkward and possibly unhappy by not embracing his suggestion without hesitation. Sherlock quickly looked John over. The doctor wouldn’t meet Sherlock’s eyes and instead stared off into the distance, his hands already pulling the puzzle box cover back over the pieces, giving up before they even started. Sherlock blinked and realized that if John had been a child the last time he’d tried such an undertaking, perhaps it had been a happy memory he’d wanted to share with Sherlock and now felt silly about even attempting, “I’ve never done one, actually. I’ve only ever worked on crimes or chemistry.”

“You _love_ solving puzzles.”

“Criminal puzzles. Picture ones, not as such.” John looked down, his cheeks pink but not because he was happy. John was embarrassed now. Sherlock didn’t like the way it looked on him, “Can you imagine Mycroft and I spending any time at all trying to do such a thing? We would have murdered one another.”

John’s embarrassment was fading away, especially after Sherlock picked up the container and examined the picture on the front closely. “What is this?” There were balls of colour and tiny text pockets densely strewn everywhere.

“It’s a solar system puzzle. There are factoids built in so that you can learn about what’s around our planet. I thought it would be a bit of a laugh.” John shook his head, “It’s okay, Sherlock, it was a rubbish idea anyway.”

Sherlock took the puzzle back and set it on the table, “How does one begin? Is it random drawings, like a lottery? Is there a system? How do you go about it?”

John was genuinely amazing that Sherlock had no idea how to do a perfectly ordinary picture puzzle. “I start with the corners.”

The rest of the night was spent sorting the pieces out, locating and assembling the edge bits, and by then, the bug had bitten Sherlock. Obsessively, he sorted out all the pieces by colour as well as shape, pressing saucers into service to keep things separated yet easily visible. “So, the spot is a storm three times larger than earth and it’s been there for hundreds of years and it’s still going?” Sherlock sounded sceptical.

“Well, I didn’t pop over there to see for myself, but apparently that’s what it is.”

“Says who?”

“The space community.”

“There’s a community in space?” Sherlock was entirely astonished, “Is there crime there? How do they govern themselves? How is it possible to sustain a space community? Are they dependent on supplies from earth or are their facilities self-supporting?”

John was laughing now, “No, no, no, they don’t actually live in space.” John explained the worldwide network of scientific endeavours, the countless numbers of people involved, and the ever-growing list of off-world projects that were going on or being planned for. Sherlock was floored, “How do you not know this?” John exclaimed, “I thought science was your thing.”

“It’s not relevant to the Work.” It seemed perfectly logical to Sherlock but hysterically funny to John who couldn’t seem to stop laughing. “I focus on forensics, John. The facts I keep in my head relate only to human social constructs, constructs within which crime is committed. It’s endlessly fascinating, why would I care about anything not relating to crime?”

John just laughed harder for a moment before calming himself down and grinning widely at Sherlock. He’d felt a bit awkward that John was laughing at him, but now the soldier was looking at him with such…fondness, that all his less happy feelings melted away, “You’re a mad bastard, Sherlock Holmes, and I wouldn’t have you any other way. You’re just amazing.”

Sherlock felt his cheeks unaccountably heating. John had said as much many times before but tonight, it seemed extra difficult to restrain his natural reactions. “Thank you, John, but if one of us is mad, it’s you. You’re the lunatic that ran off to war on purpose and who decided to live with someone he didn’t even know, that he met in a morgue of all places, only a day after they were introduced. Absolutely everyone we know thinks I’m disturbed, yet here you are.”

John was still smiling, “I like the disturbing bits, they’re brilliant. I like all the bits, in fact.”

“Well, I think you’re disturbed but fortunately, I like that too.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

They worked at the puzzle in silence for a long time before John asked if Sherlock wanted tea. When the detective nodded, John rubbed Sherlock’s shoulder on his way to the kettle, and then again before he sat down once more. Sherlock said nothing, and absolutely did not casually set his hand down right next to John’s while he leaned over the table to fit in two more pieces that he had found. Their table was small and most of it was taken up the puzzles or plates. It was mere convenience, not a desire to hold hands. Clearing his throat, Sherlock made himself focus on the pieces.

 

John and Sherlock

 

Not touching Sherlock was becoming impossible. John had never been as literally physically drawn to someone as he was to Sherlock Holmes. He couldn’t help himself, and only barely managed to keep his hands on relatively benign locations like shoulders when what he wanted to do was cup Sherlock’s face and kiss him forever.  Instead, John made tea and tried to keep his hands off of Sherlock. Sherlock had beautiful hands. John was noticing since one of them was right beside his, “Your hands are huge! Why have I never noticed?”

Sherlock felt awkward. He knew that he was a big man, there was nothing he could do about it. His hands were big, his head was big, he was just…big everywhere. John was better. He was just the right height and just the right weight and just the right everything else. Sherlock coveted and lusted after John’s body. He wanted to explore it everywhere and learn all he could about John’s delectable body.

John put his own hand directly over Sherlock’s to compare, “Look at that!” Sherlock seemed to have frozen solid, not breathing, not twitching. He was staring at John’s hand on his and John nearly jerked it away except that he was just close enough now to watch as Sherlock’s eyes dilate and for his nostrils to flare. The tiny gasp was unsuccessfully stifled and Sherlock leaned toward John in the smallest possible way.

John was so close to him. All he needed to do was turn his face upward and their mouths would be aligned. Sherlock wanted that. He wanted to kiss John, to taste him, to know him in every conceivable way. The way his hand felt on top of his. It felt like an offer, a promise. Sherlock had to know.

John was no fool. He’d lived with Sherlock Holmes for a long time, and he knew how Sherlock reacted to things. For the first time in his life, he was absolutely certain of what he was witnessing. Sherlock was attracted to him. There was a chance here if John was brave enough to take it. It was still a risk, but the odds seemed to be favouring him at the moment. John took it. “To do a proper comparison though, I’d need to use my other hand.” John got up from the table and stood directly behind Sherlock. Leaning forward so that only an inch of space separated their torsos, John placed his hand right over Sherlock’s, even spreading his fingers so that he was directly in line with all of Sherlock’s digits. John dragged his thumb a tad slower, rubbing against Sherlock’s larger thumb as he placed it with greater precision. “What do you think?”

Such a delicate questioning touch! No one ever touched Sherlock the way John did. He was so knowing, so gentle, so firm, so direct. Everything about John was earnest, honest, sincere, and dependable. Sherlock found that his mouth was watering and he had to swallow hard, incapable of answering.

Sherlock seemed to hesitate and John almost drew himself away. “I think that bigger isn’t necessarily better. Some people prefer a more…condensed model. Your hands are a better size to accomplish things that require great dexterity.” John smiled when Sherlock slowly turned his hand over, allowing their fingers to stroke past each other before keeping his hand, palm up, beneath John’s. “You are very good with your hands, John. I’ve long admired what you are capable of doing with them.”

“Is that so?” Sherlock was thrilled that John hadn’t moved away, not the tiniest bit. He was in fact, leaning so close now that Sherlock could feel his body almost pressing against his.

“Indeed.” Sherlock was leaning back! They were touching now, boldly touching. John was almost laying on Sherlock’s shoulder, their hands palm to palm.

“What kinds of things?” John’s body was so warm, even through the layers of wool and cotton. Sherlock immediately began to calculate the potential increase of heat with every layer removed.

“You were a surgeon. You had lives on the line and these hands have resurrected many who would have perished without their skills. Even if you aren’t a surgeon any longer, you still retain the knowledge.” Sherlock sounded aroused!

“You like that?” John sounded surprised!

“Very much, John Watson.” John noticed that the Holmes brothers tended toward excessive formality whenever they were presented with emotionally charged situations. His instincts hadn’t been wrong then, Sherlock was definitely attracted to him and was accepting John’s subtle offer of more. He couldn’t rush this. Sherlock wasn’t very experienced, or experienced at all, was he? John wondered what he should try next.

John was moving too slowly. Sherlock was becoming impatient. Now that their signals had clearly registered with the other, he was instantly reluctant to spend one-second longer edging toward the culmination of his long-suppressed desires. If John had felt the way Sherlock had felt for even a quarter of the time Sherlock had, then they would be in their dotage before progressing to intercourse. He couldn’t manage that much time so Sherlock decided to throw all caution to the wind and to do his best to erase any memory whatsoever of any lover that John had ever had…especially her.

John was a bit surprised when Sherlock pushed back firmly and stood. He knew it. He’d pushed too fast, had hinted at too much. Now Sherlock was going to storm away and hide in his mind-palace as per usual. John tried not to feel rejected. There was some hope, after all. Tonight had been a very good beginning. He shouldn’t feel….

Sherlock had made up his mind. Standing with determination, Sherlock turned to face John, leaned down, and kissed him with every bit of skill he had garnered as the very meticulous and detail oriented scientist he was. He wasn’t a virgin, far from it. He’d had a very healthy sex life as a younger person but like many of the pleasures he used to enjoy, he’d cut himself off entirely once he’d realized that it wasn’t the most important thing for him at the time. Sherlock knew he’d been out of control for many years, and it had taken a lot of self-discipline to rein himself in. Now, however, was not the time for holding back. It was time to overwhelm and conquer.

John found himself being kissed with the kind of skill and thoroughness that he would never have expected from Sherlock Holmes. It was so unexpected yet so welcome that John simply melted into it, gratefully accepting and reciprocating everything being done to him by the tall gorgeous man in front of him. John pulled Sherlock closer still and tilted his head back in order to deepen the kiss further. When their tongues slid against one another’s, John heard a dual groan of pure desire. He pulled back at last, almost panting, and looked up. Sherlock looked so serious, even with kiss-bruised lips and a deep flush on his cheeks, “You’re perfect. You’re just…you’re just everything to me, Sherlock.”

Sherlock knew the kiss was a risk but how could he not take it, not when all the signs pointed toward success and a success it was. John was actively kissing him once more, and it was everything Sherlock could have hoped for and more. John wasn’t passively accepting Sherlock’s advance, he was making some of his own if the hand on Sherlock’s arse was any kind of indication, so Sherlock boldly rubbed his hips hard against John’s, bending his knees a bit to get the level just right. The firmness he found there answered any question he might have had, yet, voicing them was more necessary as well. “You are every good reason to keep being here, John. I don’t need to know about the solar system because you are the centre of everything. All I’ll ever want is you.”

John felt almost like he needed to cry. This entire evening was so much more than he could ever have expected and he was awash with emotions. Sherlock was kissing him once more and it was difficult to do more than feel exultant over that fact. What he wasn’t expecting was for Sherlock to pull away with an expression of deep regret nor to hear Sherlock say, “I know you miss Mary, and I’m not trying to replace her. All I can hope for is that someday I might be able to approach her in the degree of regard you hold.”

John’s face was a picture of shock and confusion. Sherlock instantly regretted bringing Mary into the conversation right at the worst possible moment but he needed John to know that he didn’t mind being a stand-in for her. If that’s what he could get of John, then that was better than he could have wished for. It really hurt when John said with certainty, “That’s never going to happen,” in a voice that was completely unwavering. The twang from Sherlock’s heart was painful enough to make him twitch but instead of letting him loose to explain how his love for his late wife was eternal John said, “Mary was my replacement for _you_ , and not a very good one. I’ll never be able to love you like I loved her because I would have to love you less, and by now I know for a fact that it’s impossible.”

John thought Sherlock was going to faint. He’d never seen the consulting detective affected by emotions before but right that moment, Sherlock reminded John of the fainting heroines in his mother’s old romance books. He was pale, stunned, and very obviously completely surprised.

“You love me?” Sherlock felt like his heart was going to implode. This was the last thing he expected. He knew that John cared for him, and that perhaps he even loved him but only as a friend. Instead, here he was, standing inside John’s embrace, with the taste of John in his mouth, and a declaration of love in his ears. “John?”

John smiled up at his best friend, and the desperate hopefulness in the consulting detective’s eyes told him everything he needed to know. “I do. I love you, Sherlock. I want to be with you, always.”

Sherlock had never had to deal with a maelstrom of positive feelings before. He didn’t do feelings, or emotions, or relationships, but here he was standing on the cusp of a whole new lifestyle that would potentially involve lots of all those things! “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure, Sherlock, very sure. I do love you.”

“I love you too.” John felt faint now and his cheeks hurt a bit from the amount of smiling that he was doing. They both stood there staring at one another, grinning. “I don’t know what to do now. I didn’t really plan this or anything.”

Sherlock just shrugged. “We’ll figure it out. It’s already the best Christmas I’ve ever had and it’s not even midnight yet.”

“So that’s it then? We’re together.”

“We were always together, John, we just know it now.”

Kisses resumed and caresses followed, and sometime after that, the Boys of Baker Street retired to John’s room to continue with their explorations. It got a bit noisy but they didn’t receive any complaints, least of all from their landlady who just stayed in her rooms and enjoyed another herbal soother. “Happy Christmas, my boys.” Mrs Hudson took one last drag before going back to bed, “This is the best present you could have ever gotten one another.” There was silence after that, a contented happy one, and all was good.


End file.
